


The Pleasures of Company

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Series: Prurience [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (But like. A smidge.), Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Cock Slapping, Cock Warming, Crossdressing, Dacryphilia, Fucked into unconsciousness, Intercrural Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Somnophilia, Top Tom Riddle, Top Tom Riddle Sr.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Harry smoothed down the frilly, layered skirt of his costume nervously, fidgeting with the apron at his waist continuously. Despite being alone, he couldn't find a comfortable position to stand—he felt self-conscious in his clothing, and understandably so. The dress he wore was black and soft, and short enough that his thighs were bare despite the long, black stockings that wrapped around his legs.





	The Pleasures of Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exarite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exarite/gifts).



> Happy birthday Exarite!!! I hope this isn't too late （；^ω^）
> 
> Also, thanks so much to [aroundloafofbread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroundloafofbread/pseuds/aroundloafofbread) for betaing ❤️

Harry smoothed down the frilly, layered skirt of his costume nervously, fidgeting with the apron at his waist continuously. Despite being alone, he couldn't find a comfortable position to stand—he felt self-conscious in his clothing, and understandably so. The dress he wore was black and soft, and short enough that his thighs were bare despite the long, black stockings that wrapped around his legs. His shoulders were bare too, the neckline of his dress made wide enough that it slipped off the shoulders. His entire front felt unbearably naked. He'd never worn something that left his neck and collarbone so thoroughly revealed.

 

He wasn't sure if he liked it yet.

 

He stood outside the parlour, and while he waited he couldn't help but shake his hips a little, just to explore the feeling of soft cotton and a breeze where there usually wasn't one. The hem of his skirt brushed the skin of his thighs with every step, too soft to really tickle but tangible enough that it made Harry shiver. He almost enjoyed it like this, by himself, exploring the utterly novel feeling of his legs being encased in soft material, of feeling _sexy_. There was power in the way he walked, his heels somehow giving him a feeling of influence and sway that felt foreign, and yet welcome.

 

As he stood in the wide hallway, coming to terms with his own appearance, the doorbell rang.

 

Immediately his eyes shot to the front door, its dark wood gleaming in the orange light. He felt almost _shy_. But there was also a sense of urgency. He knew both Mr Riddle and Tom would have heard the bell, and they'd be waiting for Harry to lead their guests in promptly. He didn't want to disappoint.

 

It had taken him a while to get used to walking in heels—though these weren't particicularly high—but by now he felt fairly confident striding his way to the front door. He strode over and pressed his hand to the doorknob where he paused, suddenly unsure. The metal was cool under his fingers, and for a second Harry wondered if it was cold outside or if he himself had grown hot, a mix of anticipation and shyness making him feel warmer by the minute. But he could almost _feel_  Tom and Mr Riddle waiting, so he shook off the uncertainty and opened the door.

 

There were five men standing on the other side. Harry recognised them all, though some were more familiar than others. As he stepped to the side, the first to walk through was Malfoy, his blond hair loose as it usually was. He looked past Harry like he wasn't even there, instead striding through and shoving his coat in Harry's direction as he did.

 

Next to walk through were the two Lestrange brothers, Rabastan and Rodolphus. Harry remembered that one of them was married, and for a second he felt mortified—didn't they know what would happen today? He'd been so sure that Mr Riddle had informed his guests beforehand, but now he no longer felt as certain, and it made him feel exposed—especially when Rabastan did not bother hiding the way his eyes ran up and down Harry's body.

 

He tried to pretend he didn't see it, but felt himself tremble despite the attempt to remain unfazed. His eyes slid to the last two guests, of whom one—Crouch Jr, he thought—sauntered through like he owned the place. The other was someone Harry was more familiar with. He stood there and waited whilst Harry locked the door and put away the coats, and stood all too close when he turned.

 

"Hullo, pretty," he said, and though he did not touch Harry, his gaze felt like a violation.

 

"We should get inside," Harry said, and then winced when his voice came out much too timid. Rosier smiled like he'd won something, and beckoned for Harry to lead the way in.

 

He'd never felt so aware of every part of himself as he walked the few steps down to the parlour. Every step felt like he was removing  another layer of clothing, like Rosier was seeing something he hadn't meant to reveal. He wondered how much of his skin could be seen from behind—his shoulders bare, his thighs naked, and could the man see underneath his skirt? Could he see parts of Harry that, until now, only Mr Riddle and Tom had?

 

And why did the thought of somebody else seeing him like that make him feel so aroused?

 

They walked through the hallway in silence, Harry's heels click-clacking sharply against the tiled flooring. His hips swayed with every step, and as he entered through the doorway he couldn't help but notice how their eyes went to his skirt, to the teasing sliver of skin that showed between the hem of the dress and the tops of his stockings. It made him redden in embarrassment, and the urge to pull at the hem became almost overwhelming. He resisted. In his awkwardness, he turned to the coffee table, but then one of the Lestranges whistled—loud and shameless—and Harry almost tripped over in surprise. And here he thought he'd become proficient at walking in heels.

 

And yet, in sharp contrast to his shame was a sense of glee, pride at the effect he had on these people. He felt almost like a talented seductress, making lovesick fools of powerful men with just a turn of her neck, and he had to admit the feeling was intoxicating.

 

And then there was Tom, already engaging with his guests like it was as natural as breathing, and across him Mr Riddle—uncaring and aloof. He sat with his shoulders back, his left arm draped over the back of the sofa he sat on. His legs were spread, his feet planted firmly on the tiled floor, and in his right hand he held his phone, in which he seemed absolutely absorbed. Harry found himself watching his every slow blink, the way his lashes seemed much longer against his skin, the tiny twitch of his lips that told Harry he wasn't as uninterested as he seemed. His head was slightly tilted, and as Harry watched he reached to brush a strand of hair back from his face.

 

He was so incredibly handsome that it took Harry's breath away.

 

They both looked up after a while, like they'd just noticed him standing there, and Mr Riddle had such a pleased look on his face that Harry automatically felt himself straightening up under his attention like a sunflower under the sun.

 

It certainly distracted him, because when he came back to himself he realised that Tom had greeted all of his guests and was waiting for Harry to pay attention again. He gasped a little, glancing sheepishly at Tom who seemed a little sour at where his focus had been, and walked swiftly over to the coffee table in the middle of the room. Upon it lay a full tea set and some scones, ready to be served.

 

Though he felt incredibly conscious of the guests sitting right behind him, he kept his eyes and attention on his fingers, willing his fingers to be steady. It wouldn't do to spill or trip, after all. Despite the intent of today's meeting, these were people with whom Mr Riddle and Tom often did business with. He couldn't let himself mess up.

 

As he filled the fancy little cups, he felt a firm, large hand smack his backside. He jumped, almost spilling the tea, but he managed just barely to right the pot in time. "He's got such a round arse, Thomas," the man behind him said shamelessly. Harry thought it might be Rosier, but he was too flustered to check. Harry stared at Mr Riddle, then at Tom, waiting for them to do or say _anything_ —they didn't. It made him heat with a sort of humiliation that was hard to bear, a feeling that made him want to hide, but he controlled himself and took a slow, deep breath in.

 

Pretending as if nothing had happened, he moved on to the next cup.

 

"Indeed, you do know how to pick the best ones," Crouch Jr commented. There was a pause as Harry passed Malfoy his cup, both men waiting for a response, but Mr Riddle just hummed noncommittally.

 

"Of course we do," Tom replied instead. His fingers tapped at the arm of his chair, and he smiled when he saw Harry looking. "But Harry can do a lot more than just pour tea, can't you dear."

 

It wasn't a question. Harry straightened, and when Tom beckoned he walked over without a word.

 

When he stood before Tom, the man leaned back, his gaze taking full advantage of the view. He spent a few long, highly-charged moments watching the way Harry's legs trembled just the slightest, the stockings outlining their shape in a way that should have been illegal. He watched the rise and fall of Harry's chest, the contrast between his bare shoulders and the black frills that framed them, the red of his cheeks and and green of his eyes. He stepped into his chair, his back straight but relaxed, and tapped his own shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Harry. "Bend over, sweetheart," he ordered. Harry pursed his lips nervously but, balancing carefully on his heels, bent at the waist to rest his chin on Tom's shoulder.

 

It was difficult, balancing like that. Harry tried, for a second, and then tried to hold on to Tom's biceps to steady himself. Tom tutted, tapping a finger on his right hand.

 

"Hands behind your back," he told him, his voice low and heavy this close to his ear. Trembling a little, Harry grasped his own wrist at the small of his back, and then almost jumped out of his skin when Tom's hands landed firmly on his upper thighs.

 

Just under the hem of his skirt.

 

He felt oddly sensitive there—the skin cold from exposure to air, but more than that it was like the constant brushing of silk against his skin making him feel everything that much more keenly. Tom bit playfully at his naked shoulder, clearly amused by his reactions, and slid his hand up higher.

 

It was warm against Harry's skin, and the slow slide of his palms to somewhere nobody could see made something nearly _painful_  ache in his groin.

 

Tom traced the edges of Harry's underwear, his nails scratching lightly at the skin just under the elastic, and could anyone else guess what he was wearing? Nobody would be able to see because of the way Tom touched him, but they could certainly make a good guess.

 

And then Tom snapped the elastic against his skin, and they didn't have to. He jumped again, pressing his fingers more tightly into his own wrist and biting at Tom's shirt collar to keep himself quiet. "Good boy," Tom murmured, and then pulled the flimsy material aside to nudge at his hole.

 

It was already slick and open, and Tom's curious finger slid in almost too easily. "You're hungry for it, aren't you," Tom laughed loudly, not bothering to keep it quiet. Harry didn't know why _that_  made him feel the burn of shame when being spread open in front of near strangers wasn't.

 

It was like Tom knew _exactly_  what he was thinking. "Should I tell you how they're looking at you right now?" he asked.

 

He pushed his finger in deeper, pushing against Harry's insides before moving back again. Harry whined quietly against Tom's throat, his legs widening despite himself. The fingers of Tom's other hand flexed in the meat of his upper thigh, at the place where it met his arse, and his finger slid in again. "Do you want to know how carefully they're watching the things I do to you?"

 

And oh, he wished he could see them himself—their eyes rapt on the hem of his skirt, waiting for just the tiniest hint of what Tom was doing to him. He wished he could see the way their eyes darkened, the flush that heated their skin, the arousal that tented their trousers. He wanted to see what kind of effect _he_  was having, wanted to know exactly how attractive he looked by the measure of their interest.

 

But he couldn't say any of that. Instead, he moaned into Tom's skin, and as his lover fingered him open he mouthed wet, biting kisses against Tom's neck. He smelled most strongly of his cologne here, Harry thought distantly, but found he could mostly only focus on how well Tom stretched him.

 

And then, almost as if by accident, his eyes slid over to the side, landing just barely on Mr Riddle sitting and watching him. He was just as relaxed as he had been before, unbothered by the show his son put on for him. His shoulders were back against the sofa, and his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the rim of his glass. He looked, for all the world, to be watching nothing more interesting than the news.

 

But then Harry's eyes slid down, down to the shape between Mr Riddle's legs. He noticed the tightness in Mr Riddle's calves, the clenching of his hand, and then back to the unashamed arousal he showed off, and he couldn't help the way his mouth watered at the sight.

 

It was almost like Tom sensed his distraction. Harry gasped when he pushed in deeper, dragging his attention back with a snap, and almost against his will his stance widened some more. Tom laughed again, and Harry wanted to cry at the dark promise in his tone. Tom's finger moved into him, then another, and all Harry could think about was that the skirt barely hid anything from the watching audience. Could they see the skin where his thighs ended? Could they tell what he was wearing, the colour of his underwear, the material it was made from? Could they, with the occasional enthusiastic thrust, see the way his hole stretched around Tom's fingers, the slickness seeping from his arse? He wanted to believe they couldn't, but as Tom's fingers moved into him faster and harder he couldn't help but shift his hips upwards, and knew that his skirt was probably too short to do more than cover the back of Tom's moving hand.

 

Tom's fingers pushed up into him hard, and Harry gasped loudly. "That's enough," Mr Riddle said, almost as if he didn't want to have to say it. Like he’d expected Tom to know without him saying.

 

Everything went silent. Tom went still inside him, and Harry felt the barely restrained flex of Tom's fingers, like Tom was still deciding whether or not to obey. He nosed at Harry's neck and bit down there, and then twisted his fingers until Harry thought he'd collapse. He moaned, watching as Mr Riddle's slight frown deepened, and Harry knew Tom was looking at Mr Riddle as he made Harry gasp. He imagined the defiance in his gaze, the way their eyes locked in a battle of wills, but Mr Riddle didn't say another word. Tom's fingers widened inside him, as if reluctant to leave the tightness of his body, but with an annoyed sigh he slid them from Harry's hole and put his hands back on Harry's thighs.

 

Harry didn't move from his position, and felt Tom press a kiss into his hair for it. He readjusted Harry's panties, sliding them back over his hole like a passing attempt at modesty—futile, for all it managed to cover. He tried to regain his composure, still bent over with his face pressed into Tom's shoulder, but Mr Riddle's expectant gaze on his arse felt almost like a physical weight, and it made him shiver with anticipation.

 

Tom's fingers pressed into Harry's thighs, and Harry straightened up like it was a signal. Mr Riddle patted his lap teasingly, his lips twitching in the barest hint of a smirk. "Come here, darling," he called. "My cock needs some warming up.”

 

Tom kept him where he was for a long moment, as if trying to make himself let go. He kissed Harry again and smoothed out his skirt before giving his butt a swat. "Go on then," he said. Harry kissed Tom's cheek and straightened, turning and walking towards Mr Riddle and trying desperately to keep his balance in heels.

 

It was awkward walking over with his arse so wet, so stretched, but Harry tried to ignore how empty he felt. When at last he stood in front of Mr Riddle, the man grabbed him by his hips and spun him around so that he was looking out at the rest of the room.

 

The presence of near-strangers was almost a shock to Harry—he had almost forgotten that there was anyone there apart from his two lovers. Instead, he found various men—men from wealthy families, both Tom's friends and Mr Riddle's—watching him as Mr Riddle guided him down into his lap. How strange, that although he'd known they were there the whole time, it was only now that he felt the full weight of their gazes.

 

He'd moaned like a whore for them just now.

 

It was somehow more embarrassing to stand and stare at them, and see them staring back as Mr Riddle ran his hands up his legs and down again between them.  He tried to keep his gaze straight and unwavering, but when confronted with Malfoy licking his lips and Rosier palming himself shamelessly, he found he couldn't help but look away.

 

The sound of the zipper being pulled down was like a shot in the silence, and the knowledge that Mr Riddle was just now probably taking out his own cock made Harry feel almost light-headed. He wanted so badly to look back, and without consciously deciding to he imagined the sight behind him. He knew what his cock looked like so very intimately by now, had seen the way Mr Riddle handled himself enough to imagine, incredibly vividly, the way his fingers wrapped around his girth.

 

He heard a soft grunt, and knew Mr Riddle was stroking himself. His arousal must have been obvious on his face, because Tom laughed.

 

"Go on then," he said. "We all know you're hungry for it." Harry couldn't even pretend to not understand—he was too obvious, too hungry, too clearly needy for Mr Riddle.

 

So he didn't even bother trying. A firm hand came to rest on his waist, and he felt almost hyper-aware of Rosier and the Lestranges, of Malfoy and Crouch watching him, their eyes roaming his bitten-red lips, his bare shoulders and heaving chest, his bare thighs and splayed legs as Mr Riddle guided Harry down to sit on his dick. He slid down slowly despite his eagerness—Tom's fingers were nothing compared to this, and though Harry had taken Mr Riddle multiple times before, the stretch still took his breath out of him.

 

He felt almost faint with the intensity, but when he tried to pause Mr Riddle's hand on his waist pushed him down further, until Harry burned with the stretch and the weight and the ache inside him. He shimmied a little, moving side to side on Mr Riddle's cock to find a comfortable position but the cock inside him felt overwhelmingly _present_  no matter how he sat.

 

He tried to rise again, but Mr Riddle hissed in pleasure and, without warning, grabbed him by the hips and shoved him back down.

 

Harry cried out, and one of the men—Crouch?—laughed quietly. He wanted to be embarrassed, but all he could think of was how large Mr Riddle seemed inside him like this. "Down boy," someone joked, but Mr Riddle was pushing his legs wide so they rested on the arms of his chair, so Harry couldn't find it in himself to look up.

 

"Stay there," Mr Riddle murmured into his ear. "You'll be good for me, won't you?" It wasn't really a question—Harry would never want to disappoint Mr Riddle, and both of them knew that.

 

He leaned back, easing into the body behind him until his back was touching Mr Riddle's chest. The man lead Harry's hands to his own thighs and left them there, and when Harry didn't move them he shifted under him just _so_ , his cock pushing against his insides.

 

"Good boy," Mr Riddle said then, and the compliment made something in Harry light up brightly. He felt pleased, but more than that he felt _satisfied_ . He'd done _well_. Mr Riddle's hands roamed his chest and waist and thighs like he didn't even realise he was doing it, and as the conversation started back up he reached up to pinch at Harry's nipples until he was gasping.

 

He pushed out for more, turned his head to mouth at Mr Riddle's jaw, but the man didn't even seem to notice—and neither did anyone else. He looked at Tom, and then—despite himself, at Rosier too, but no. It was like he wasn't even there.

 

Like he was just an ornament.

 

And he'd never felt more like one, his only use as a cockwarmer even in a crowded room like this. It didn't matter how much he moaned or gasped or kissed pleadingly at the corner of Mr Riddle's mouth, didn't matter if he clenched around his cock or shifted to get more comfortable—nobody reacted to his presence.

 

Harry had never felt more insignificant, and yet it wasn't unpleasant. It was like his only job here _was_  to sit on Mr Riddle's cock, to keep it warm, so much so that nobody felt the need to bat an eye. And Mr Riddle was so _deep_  inside him, so wide, that Harry couldn't forget about it no matter how his mind drifted.

 

He felt almost dazed, his mind stuck on the feel of the fabric against his sore nipples and his cock, tightly restrained in soft cotton. It was like he could feel every fibre, every thread against his thighs, the stark difference in temperature between his chest and shoulders, the slight ache in the sole of his foot that came from being unused to heels. He felt almost too sensitive, and yet he didn't feel urgent or particularly desperate—he could stay like this forever, and be content.

 

He wasn't sure how long he remained like that, lost in the way Mr Riddle's hands stroked along the soft skin of his inner thighs, the way they spread his legs open wider and slid under his skirt to touch the place where they were joined like the rest of him was a secret. He lost himself in the soft rumble of Mr Riddle's chest as he spoke, in Tom's voice from somewhere to his left, in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun through the large windows along the West side of the room.

 

Coming back to the present felt a little like waking from a dream—a slow rise back to reality, which started with the gentle way Mr Riddle was thrusting into him. It wasn't even thrusting, really—more of a slow grind, but Harry felt it's presence keenly enough that he moaned low and soft.

 

"That's right," Mr Riddle said into his hair. "You're such a good boy, aren't you. So obedient, my pretty." And then he pushed in harder, and Harry's eyes flew open like he'd been slapped.

 

"You do have wonderful taste, Thomas," the blond man commented—Malfoy, Harry recalled. He had long hair pushed back behind his ears, and sat back with his shoulders high. For a minute, Harry wondered what Mr Riddle would look like with long hair, and felt his cock twitch in spite of himself.

 

"Indeed," Rodolphus added. "He certainly looks a sight."

 

It was like Tom had been waiting for exactly that moment. He shifted his legs so one was crossed over the other. "Like him, do you?" he said airily, like they were talking about the colour of the walls and not someone being fucked in the middle of the room. He turned to Harry. "Show our guests what you have to offer, sweetheart.

 

"Show our guests how well you take cock."

 

He said it so casually Harry almost didn't register what he meant. He stared at Tom in disbelief, but Tom didn't seem to be joking.

 

Mr Riddle laughed, and then thrust into him again. "Go on sweetheart," he said. "Lift up your skirt for the nice men."

 

His fingers pressed harder into Harry's skin, and Harry—taking it as the order it was, did as told and pulled up the hem of his skirt just a little. He didn't look at Malfoy or Rodolphus as he did, but kept his eyes on Tom, watching as his eyes slid from Harry's face to the space between his thighs, and Harry understood that _just a little_  had been enough.

 

Crouch Jr whistled, and Harry felt himself immediately flushing hot at the thought of what Tom, of what they could _all_ , see—his panties pulled to the side, arse stretched around Mr Riddle's cock, wet and pink and oh, what they must think of him! But where there was a sliver of mortification at being so immodest, at being so _vulgar_ , there was also an odd feeling of fulfilment at being something worth showing off. And when Mr Riddle pulled his legs further apart, and murmured _good boy_  in his ear like that, Harry couldn't deny that he felt like he could burst from delight.

 

He wanted to hide his face, but a distant part of him told him it didn't even matter—none of them were looking at his face anyway.

 

He arched his back a little and Tom laughed, putting down the teacup he'd just picked up with a sharp _clink_. "If you're so desperate for dick, darling, I'm sure our guests will be willing to accommodate." In response to his comment, Rosier perked up and grinned at Harry, and when he saw Harry watching leaned back and spread his legs suggestively.

 

"A little more," Tom urged, and then groaned heavily when Harry pulled the skirt up higher. "That's right," he said. "You're all wrapped up and pretty for us, aren't you."

 

Tom's eyes did not move from the sight of Harry's cock, heavy and damp with arousal, waiting for him to play with. He flushed at Tom's intense attention, and it made his lover grin. "You like that?" he asked. "Being called pretty? You got upset when Barty here called your arse a good round thing but how could I tell him off for speaking the truth, darling?"

 

Harry couldn't answer, his breaths stuttering in his chest.

 

He looked back at Rosier despite himself, remembering all the comments the man had made before at parties and dinners, the way he'd promised Harry unforgettable nights, "or I could just fuck you over the table, if you'd prefer." He was silent now, his hand moving slowly over his crotch, and for a minute Harry felt incredibly influential.

 

Then Mr Riddle was grabbing his legs and pulling them up against his chest, fucking him so much deeper that he couldn't help but cry out, and Harry forgot all about Evan Rosier.

 

Mr Riddle started fucking him in earnest, so much so that Harry could only focus on the slick slide of his cock and the delicious stretch of his arse. It was a difficult position, but the way Mr Riddle inadvertently showed off his strength made Harry that much more aroused.

 

The sound of a loud groan made Harry look over at Tom, only to find he'd pulled his own cock out of his trousers and was now stroking himself roughly, his eyes half-lidded and focused on Harry's open, wet mouth. As Harry watched, his eyes flicked down to his arse and then back up, like he couldn't decide which he preferred. It made something soft bloom in Harry's chest. It made him want to kiss Tom silly.

 

The loud sound of their fucking rang throughout the room. Mr Riddle felt so good inside him, and Harry felt so close to coming that his hands reached almost mindlessly for his own cock. Mr Riddle didn't seem to agree—he stopped immediately, grabbing at Harry's hair and pulling his head back sharply.

 

In the sudden silence, Harry's own breathing seemed impossibly loud, his heart a drum in his chest. It was like he hadn't realised quite how excited he'd gotten, and was only now realising as he panted desperately. He whined, and a part of him felt like it should be ashamed of sounding so incredibly _horny_ , but he couldn't care less.

 

When Mr Riddle still didn't move he tried to pull himself off his cock, grabbing at Mr Riddle's arm, but it was an impossible task. There was no way to move himself when positioned like this, his arse displayed for all to see.

 

"Did I say you could?" Mr Riddle asked. He was out of breath too, but still seemed less affected than Harry despite having put in more effort.

 

Harry whined again, but Mr Riddle remained uncaring. Instead, he moved so suddenly that Harry barely had time to blink before he was on his hands and knees on the coffee table, Mr Riddle still deep in his arse. He angled his hips for more, but still Mr Riddle did not fuck him. Instead, he seemed to be considering something.

 

Then he grabbed Harry's hair again to pull his head back so his back arched, and kept him there. "It looks like one isn't enough for him," he commented, so offhandedly it took a minute for Harry to understand what he was implying.

 

Immediately he tried to look back at Mr Riddle, and when that didn't work over at Tom, but neither of them were paying attention to him.

 

"I'm rather fond of his arse myself," Mr Riddle continued, now looking at Malfoy like he was having a perfectly reasonable discussion. "And, if I'm honest, perhaps a little too possessive. But," and he thrust his hips like he was testing something, "I think his mouth could use a little preoccupation.

 

"He _is_  so terribly hungry, after all."

 

As Harry watched, Malfoy's mouth curved up into a vicious smirk. He stood without further prompting and undid his fly, taking out his already hard cock. It was long and pale, just like the rest of him, and seemed to flush pinker with every second that passed. Harry found his mouth watering despite himself, and Tom noticed.

 

"Hurry up then," he said loudly. "He's got others to suck on after this, you know." Harry tried again to look at Tom but Malfoy didn't waste another second—he grabbed Harry's hair just as Mr Riddle let go and, without consideration, pushed his cock into Harry's mouth.

 

It was unlike anything Harry had experienced before, not because he'd never sucked a cock—he had, plenty too—but because despite all the voyeurism and public fucking, he'd never really been fucked by anyone besides the Riddles. And yet here he was, his mouth shared about like a common whore's. Like he was public property.

 

The idea shouldn't make him so aroused, he thought.

 

He tried his best to take all of Malfoy's cock, tried to suck at it and lick like he knew he was capable of doing, but Mr Riddle was fucking him so _good_  it took all of Harry's energy to even remain upright. After a while he just gave up and went limp, letting both if them do as they pleased. Mr Malfoy took full advantage of his lack of resistance to fuck his mouth like it was his arse.

 

He pushed in and then held himself there, Mr Riddle's thrusting pushing Harry's nose against the base of Malfoy's cock. His mouth felt impossibly full and his jaw ached, but Harry could only do his best to relax his mouth and his throat, and let Malfoy have his way.

 

It didn't take much longer. Malfoy came thrusting into his mouth, no regard for Harry, and left his cock inside Harry's mouth for a long minute after he was done. Harry almost felt like he'd die from the lack of oxygen, his head so dazed it was a wonder he hadn't passed out yet, but just when he felt himself reach his limit Malfoy pulled out and dropped his head down onto the table like it was a soiled napkin.

 

With his cheek to the wood, Harry watched as Malfoy put himself away and moved back to his seat. Rosier didn't even need to be invited—he was there before anyone had said anything, and he too followed Malfoy's example in grabbing Harry's hair and thrusting in like his mouth was a fleshlight instead.

 

He fucked into Harry's mouth once, twice, then pulled out to press his cock to Harry's cheek. "Look up, pretty boy," he said. When Harry didn't immediately react he slapped him with his cock, the sound wet and loud. "Come on, look at me while I fuck you."

 

Harry looked up. Rosier was unbearably smug, this time pushing in much more slowly so as to savour it, and when his cock finally came to rest on Harry's tongue, he wasted no time in swallowing him down. He let the man use him, watching him all the while, and only let his gaze drop when his eyes strained from the effort.

 

Almost as if to drag his attention back, Mr Riddle reached around to his chest and twisted his nipples hard through the silk of his dress.

 

Harry gasped around Rosier's cock, his eyes watering at the pain. Mr Riddle fucked him harder, slower, grabbing his hips and shoving himself in deep. It almost _hurt_ , how deep he was fucking Harry, and it made tears form in his eyes no matter how fast he tried to blink them away.

 

Rosier pulled out of his mouth at the sight, a strange gleam entering his eyes. He pulled out and started stroking himself, forcing Harry to keep his head up.

 

"Open your mouth, sweetheart," he groaned, wanking himself furiously. Harry opened his mouth wide, his tongue sticking out just a little bit, and Rosier came all over it.

 

And then Mr Riddle was shoving his head down and his arse up, and fucking him so hard he feared the table might break. It felt like every part of Harry was burning with both exhaustion and overstimulation. His eyes leaked tears almost like something inside him had suddenly come loose, but for the life of him Harry could not tell what it was. All he knew was that the sight of his tears made Tom get up and cross the room to crouch before him, made him kiss Harry's nose and lips and lick his tears away like they were dessert.

 

Harry tried to wipe his own face clean, but the tears just kept coming, and his breath now came in great, heaving gasps. Mr Riddle shifted him over to his side, pulling one leg up and over his shoulder, and then became frustrated enough to reach down and _rip_  his fragile, soaked panties off him.

 

And still he couldn't stop crying. Tom leaned close and groaned at the sight of him, his hand on his cock, and leaned down further to pull Harry into a filthy, wet kiss.

 

And then Mr Riddle was coming inside him, and Tom was kissing him harder and deeper, and Harry's consciousness faded into nothing.

 

* * *

 

Mr Riddle pulled out of Harry's limp, pliant body slowly, watching the come leak out of his hole. For a few long, lasting seconds he kept his eyes fixed on the sight, noting how loose and stretched Harry's arse was, before finally looking at where Tom thumbed at Harry's bottom lip.

 

"Not his arse," he said, tucking himself back in and zipping up his trousers, "but if you're creative, I'm sure he can take two."

 

Rabastan, the younger of the Lestrange brothers, stood up. He waited patiently as Tom moved Harry's face this way and that, his hands trailing down to Harry's chest and tweaking his nipples hard, as if to check if Harry was indeed unconscious.

 

No reaction.

 

He stood, turned, and walked back to his seat.

 

Rabastan took the invitation, and without further encouragement pushed his cock between Harry's lax lips. So focused was he on the sight of Harry's mouth that he didn't notice Barty get up and near him, his eyes intent on the sight of Harry's legs and stomach and chest.

 

"Two at a time, huh," he muttered as if to himself. It was bold of him to do what he was intending to without asking for explicit permission, and Barty could not ignore the sharp look Tom sent his way. But he didn't let it bother him—confident enough in their relationship that he knew he wouldn't be denied this.

 

He was surprisingly gentle with Harry as he handled his legs, pushing him onto his back and pressing his cock between Harry's warm, firm thighs. Whereas Rabastan seemed happy to take advantage of Harry's lack of consciousness to be rough with him, Barty couldn't help but regard him as even more fragile like this. The younger man seemed almost breakable—his skin paler, his features more delicate, his legs charming and coltish, wrapped in sheer material as they were. A part of him wanted to tie the boy up, soak every part of him until his clothes were unusable, but he knew his limits.

 

Instead, he satisfied himself with this—pushing Harry's thighs tightly together and fucking them slow, wondering what his arse might feel like instead. He watched with rapt attention as the tip of his cock pushed out from between Harry's soft skin with every thrust, how it disappeared every time his hips withdrew. Harry's skirt was flipped up, his pretty cock limp and pink and wet with his own come, and for a minute Barty let himself imagine coming over his thighs and cock, wondered what it would be like to fuck the boy completely naked, his nipples swollen and sore and Barty's bite marks all over his skin.

 

Somewhere before him, he heard the grunting of Rabastan finishing over Harry's mouth and moving back, spent. He was replaced soon enough by his brother, who also wasted no time in taking his dick out. Rodolphus pulled Harry's head back until it hung over the edge of the table, his head tipped back and his throat open for Rodolphus' cock. Barty saw this, watched the man shove himself deep without a second thought, and without warning felt himself coming.

 

His orgasm felt like it went on forever, and almost distantly he watched himself come all over Harry's bare thighs and cock, watched himself come over the black skirt and white apron, until he felt loose and warm all over.

 

And still he stayed where he was. Rodolphus came quicker than his brother, thrusting loosely into Harry's mouth and throwing his head back with a loud groan.

 

Barty watched as he pulled out, and only followed when he noticed Tom approaching from the corner of his eye.

 

He knew when he'd outstayed his welcome.

 

And yet, he couldn't help but notice the surprising tenderness with which Tom picked Harry up, seemingly uncaring of the mess on his face and arse and legs. Barty had never seen his eyes that warm, his mouth that soft, and watching the way Tom handled Harry—like he was Tom's prettiest treasure—made him feel stiff with shock.

 

Tom took Harry back to the couch in the corner, laying him down gently. He pressed into Harry soft and slow—slower than Barty had imagined Tom capable of, and then his attention was being demanded by Mr Riddle.

 

* * *

 

When he came back to himself, Harry had moved from the table to the couch and Tom was inside him instead of Mr Riddle, thrusting leisurely and slow into Harry's wet, sloppy hole. His face was wet and his throat sore, and when Harry reached up to touch his cheeks his fingers came away white and sticky.

 

Tom had let them fuck him while he was unconscious.

 

Something in his stomach burned at the thought, but instead of saying anything he lay back and looked up at Tom. He watched him lazily, losing himself in the feeling of Tom inside him, feeling him speed up rather than seeing it through his half-shut eyes. Tom thrust harder, faster, speeding up as if he'd been fucking Harry for a while now, just waiting for him to wake up so he could finish.

 

Hazily, he let his gaze fall to the side, and looked over at the other end of the room to find all five guests chatting and drinking tea like they hadn't just fucked his mouth. Like half of them hadn't just fucked his _unconscious_  mouth.

 

And yet, he wasn't actually upset. Instead, the idea of himself, limp and vulnerable as a doll, was somehow _attractive_. He thought he should be scared, but in the place where the fear should be he found only immeasurable trust. Tom and.Mr Riddle would keep him safe, even if Harry couldn't do it himself.

 

And, despite himself, he had to admit that the idea of Tom using him however he pleased, letting _others_  use him as they pleased without even a glance from Harry to tell him no or yes was unbearably _hot_. Thinking about what might have happened, he couldn't help growing hard again.

 

"That's right," Tom told him, fucking into him like he belonged there, inside Harry. "You've been so good, so perfect. You've done everything we wanted exactly how we wanted it, like the good, obedient boy you are."

 

And Harry felt himself glowing at the praise. He'd done well, he'd pleased both Tom and Mr Riddle, and wasn't that all he'd set out to do today?

 

"Just a little longer," Tom grunted, and shifted his hips so he could fuck into Harry faster. "You're doing so well, darling."

 

He leaned down to press his forehead against Harry's, grabbing his hand and threading their fingers together. His mouth was red, no doubt from biting at it constantly, and Harry once again felt the sudden need to kiss Tom.

 

So he did. He pressed himself up into Tom's mouth and wrapped his arms around Tom's neck, and let Tom fuck him until he came inside Harry. Then he let Tom pull him up and onto his lap, their mouths still pressing together feverishly.

 

"Such a good boy," Tom murmured against his mouth, grasping at his erection. Harry held his wet, soiled skirt up so that Tom could stroke him harder, faster, and lost himself in the feeling of their mouths sliding together messily, of Tom's words of praise and the rising warmth of his orgasm.

 

When he came, his orgasm took with it the tension of his limbs, so that Harry collapsed bonelessly against Tom's shoulder. He felt faint, warm and relaxed and _exhausted_  in a way that was new to him. Tom let him press close, let him wrap arms around Tom's shoulders and legs around his waist despite the come all over him. His mouth moved against Tom's skin lazily, as if on autopilot, and just as he closed his eyes he felt Tom press a kiss into his hair.


End file.
